


Six Inches by Morning

by CumberCurlyGirl



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Fluff, Implied Sexual Content, Kissing, M/M, Romance, Snow
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-01
Updated: 2019-12-01
Packaged: 2021-03-04 14:42:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 754
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21636940
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CumberCurlyGirl/pseuds/CumberCurlyGirl
Summary: Sherlock wakes in the middle of a snowy night and wants to share its beauty with John.
Relationships: Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Comments: 25
Kudos: 94
Collections: Kat's Johnlock Xmas 2019





	Six Inches by Morning

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into Русский available: [Шесть дюймов к утру](https://archiveofourown.org/works/22372504) by [Little_Unicorn](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Little_Unicorn/pseuds/Little_Unicorn)

> Written for the December 1 prompt, "Snow"

The snow is falling silently. Big, soft snowflakes. The kind of snowflakes that are easy to catch on your tongue and that linger for a split-second of delicious coldness before dissolving. It’s the middle of the night, but the streetlights provide just enough illumination that Sherlock can see the sparkle of the frozen precipitation as it swirls outside the bedroom window. It’s the first snow of the season, and by dawn it will cover Baker Street with a thick white blanket, soon to be turned to a grey mush by a thousand tramping feet and the exhaust from traffic. 

An accumulation of four inches at least, Sherlock thinks. At the current temperature of the air and considering the probable temperature of the streets and sidewalks, and the rate at which the snow is falling, and how long it has been falling…Sherlock squeezes his eyes shut to stop the analysis. Why can’t he just appreciate the beauty without dissecting it? Appreciate it the way John would? He opens them again and sighs. Because analysis has its own beauty. The orderly assembly of cause and effect, the intricacies and interconnected details of the world, that when deciphered, comfort and delight him. It’s who he is. And if he were like John, what would be the point of that? The balance that exists between them, the yin and the yang, would be destroyed, and there wouldn’t be _this_.

He reaches for the hand that rests on his stomach and interweaves his fingers with John’s. He can feel the warm breath against his skin and the soft snuffling sounds of his sleep. Sherlock is often awake in the small hours when his locomotive brain is working on a case or a puzzle or even a composition, but tonight as he watches the snow fall, he is thinking only of it and of the man whose head lies against his shoulder. He wonders if he should wake him so that they can watch this first snow together. Their first snow. He wants John to see it in its pristine glory before the morning crowds defile it. 

“John,” he whispers. And when there is no response, he repeats it, louder. 

“Mmpf, yeah, what is it?” John answers, his voice gruff with sleep.

“It’s snowing.” 

“Sherlock, you woke me in the middle of the night because it’s snowing?”

“I thought you’d like to see it. It’s…pretty.” 

John is silent for a moment as he watches the snow. “It _is_ pretty. Let’s take a look.” He extricates himself from Sherlock’s embrace and rolls out of bed. “C’mon, _you_ woke _me_, remember?” Sherlock gathers the duvet from the bed and follows John down the hall and to the front window where John stops. Sherlock wraps the blanket around their shoulders and opens the sash. 

The frigid air is shocking against their faces but exhilarating. The snow is coming down harder now, and the light breeze carries it into the room. It melts on their cheeks and decorates their mussed hair. Baker Street is almost deserted at this time of night, and except for a few tyre tracks, everything is smooth and white. It’s quiet too, with the snow muting much of the ever-present soundtrack of London. Sherlock slips his arm around John’s waist. They stand together looking out into the night, and no words are needed as they gaze at the peaceful, wintry street. Then, Sherlock turns to John and kisses him. Their lips are cold but soon warmed as their tender kisses become more hungry and passionate. 

If there were anyone on the street below, they would see but a single form in the open second-story window. Two men, wrapped in a duvet, in their own blissful world, ignoring the cold and the blowing snow. 

“I calculate four inches by morning,” Sherlock says when they break their kiss and look out again into the night. 

“Only four?”

“Yes. I’m rarely wrong about these things.”

“I’m insulted.” 

Sherlock looks at John and furrows his brow. “How so?”

“Not that I’m bragging, but I’m at_ least _six inches. And so,_ I_ calculate you’ll have six, let's call it seven, inches by morning,” John says with a grin. Sherlock grins back as a familiar warmth spreads low in his belly. “Have I told you lately how much I love you, John?”

“Yes, and I only want to hear it about a million more times,” John says as he closes the window, brushes the snow from Sherlock’s curls, and leads him back to bed. 


End file.
